


Against the Dying Light

by MaskedQueen



Series: Green as Ambition, Black as Fury [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 03:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20988314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskedQueen/pseuds/MaskedQueen
Summary: No longer can she bear to sleep with the voices that make her head pound and ache so fiercely. Her eyes open slowly, blinking away the tiredness that never faded, the blur of vision that looked more of ripples in water than any clear image. Alicent cannot see what stands above her, cannot see who visits such a hated woman.____Alicent Hightower's thoughts and moments as she dies of Winter Fever.





	Against the Dying Light

_ **____** _

Sometimes, sometimes, Alicent Hightower fades away. Sometimes, she slips like cracks through melting ice, chilled water spilling out quickly and without a near end. 

Sometimes she calls out for her maid, a name across her lips, but a moment of recognition fades when her maid comes. The former Queen cries out, each time, angry and queenly:  _ You're not Jeyne, insolent child! I asked for Jeyne! _

But, of course, Lady Jeyne cannot be found for many years had passed since the poor, unwed girl had been murdered. The new maid, a lithe thing of perhaps ten and seven or so, had told her of the Lady's death the first time such a moment came about.  _ Never again _ . 

For Alicent Hightower had been overcome with grief, hot tears spilling down thinning cheeks, a cry on her lips. Her cries too an hour to subside, long enough for her to return to her senses. Long enough for her to fully remember the old pains of watching her dearest friend's throat being  _ slit _ open for no other reason than their friendship. 

The maid refuses to disclose any information her ladyship forgets, for the pain she causes is much too graphic and much too heartwrenching to cause the poor queen. Therefore, when asked for Lady Jeyne or Princess Helaena or King Aegon, the maid and septa conspire to find appropriate lies to explain their absence.

It's a harrowing thing, to watch the former queen fade from her mind. To be privy to moments when she couldn't even recognize her own sick bed from the long dead King Jaehaerys' as she called to know where he had gone without her. 

Sometimes, Alicent Hightower fades away, goes back to a different time in her mind, her grief driving her mind's escape. It is both a blessing and her penance. 

  
  


** ____ **

_ She's running.  _

_ Running quick too, little hands tugging at flying skirts, a giggle caught in her throat. Behind her, her brother lets out a cry of misfortune, stumbling past long tree branches that swooped too low for his height.  _

_ "Alice!" _

_ She keeps going, breathless and laughing, quiet puffs of exhaling leaving her thrumming chest as she goes. The wind whips her hair around her, the long brown locks wildly falling from their hair pin. It had fallen down a long while ago-- where? She did not know.  _

_ Alicent keeps going. Around her, the world is a blur of green. It blends together like the painted tapestry her mother hung up in their private chambers. The air smells of wet grass from the rains before, of her own sweat, and of flowers. Perfumey and sweet, striking in its own way.  _

_ "I'm going to catch you!" Gareth shouts, loud and striking. His voice breaks for a moment, the result of his journey into being a man, but it makes her laugh all the same.  _

_ Alicent turns her head for barely a moment, smiling wide. "Then do it!" And then, despite her burning legs, she runs. She runs and runs, ducking underneath the hanging tree branches that gave her older brother so much trouble with his new height.  _

_ Behind them, she hears Mother call them to dine, her voice ringing through the empty field. But Alicent doesn't stop, for she can hear her brother behind her, and he does not stop either. The game isn't over yet. She does not wish to be confined to stone walls and formal courtisies quite yet. _

_ "Now! Alicent, Gareth!" _

_ She keeps going.  _

_ Keeps running. Keeps laughing. Happy and free.  _

** ____ **

"What do you suppose can be forgiven by the Gods?" 

Her septa's dark eyes peered back at her curiously, "All can be forgiven, for our Gods are merciful and correct." 

"No." Alicent replies brokenly, spinning round and round the frayed edge of a ribbon. "No, no they are not merciful Gods. They are cruel ones. But somehow they give false forgiveness."

"Forgiveness can never be false, my lady." 

Alicent laughs softly, "Then you never heard how often my daughter and I forgave each other. No matter the pretty words, we never found any peace." 

The ribbons in her hands are old. Soft ones, worn and threadbare by constant use. Green. They are green. 

For green was the color of her eyes. Of the sea that she could see from her rooms early in the morning. Of the dress she wore to her wedding, with flowers sewn into the silk. The color of the dress she wore  _ that  _ day, so many days ago, at the tourney. The color of her mother’s fine gown, styled with elaborate white trimming, the day of Alicent’s fifth name day. The color of the bolt of light green fabric given to her by Queen Alysanne as a gift when she was a girl. Green was the eye color her mother so ached for, like polished emeralds. It had been her husband’s favorite color. 

"How old are they, my lady?" Her septa inquires prodingly, setting aside her embroidery. It had been a long while since Alicent had managed to find the heart and patience for sewing or reading-- she can manage no menial tasks at all. 

Her mind had been with her for some time now, though her memories did little to alleviate her gloomy disposition nor her crippling grief. With little energy, Alicent took no pleasure in anything. 

Despite her grief, Alicent manages a weak smile, "Old enough." She says gently. "I wore them in my hair as a girl, and then my Helaena wore them." Her lip trembles despite herself, but she continues slowly. "I braided them into my hair, and into hers, and sweet Jaehaera's curls as well."

"Are you skilled at braids, my lady?" 

"Rhaenyra once said I was the most skilled in the realm, and I was tasked with braiding her hair every morning and every night. Her own mother, she once said, did  _ not  _ compare." 

It was those curls she thought of when she first began the Dance. It was those curls that caused her hesitation, that had given Alicent the mind to call a council. To take the Throne for her son would have been easy, but to give legitimacy to his claim could divert the ultimate bloodshed. But Lord Beesbury, a house sworn to Hightower, had broken faith with her family. It was those curls that Alicent thought of when Ser Criston cut that old man's throat, slashing it to the bone, and she can still remember the  _ splatter  _ of blood hitting the council table. 

_ Oh God, Oh God, Little Alyn's own grandfather, his own-- No, no, no, stop thinking. It was Beesbury's own fault for choosing that girl over a trueborn son. Stop, stop-- _

"I loved her, I think." Alicent says brokenly, taking in shuddering breaths. She grabs the fabric tightly, pulling it taut and loosening it again. "Rhaenyra. I loved her, despite it all. But I feared her. I feared more than I loved. And fear breeds hatred." 

"My Lady," Her septa replies cautiously, but Alicent shakes her head. She shoves away those comforting hands, throws herself across the room, towards her bed. 

"No! No, do not touch me." She cries out, heartbroken, throwing those ribbons to the ground. "I loved her-- she was a child. A child. I started a war with a little girl the moment I bore her brother. But then again what was I? I was scarcely more than a child myself, only eight or nine years older. I tried. I tried so greatly." Tears burned her eyes, and Alicent falls down against the wall, sliding to her knees. "I tried everything I could. I loved her and her little braids and her sweet singing, but I feared her more than I loved her. Gods, Gods, why didn't she just--"

_ Accept the peace. 'Brother should not war against sister. Send me to her, that we may talk and reach an amicable accord.'  _ Alicent had fought and fought for the proposal of Grand Maester Orwyle to offer her peace, to give her fair promises in return for a truce, to give up the Throne. 

_ But why didn't you give it up?  _ Something asks her, something ringing in her ears.  _ Green and Black, Green and Black, why didn't you abandon your color and return what you took? _

Grieving, Alicent cries into her hands. "Nothing is more accursed, no sin more profound and staining, as the kinslayer. I know that well. Once, once I read  _ The Seven-Pointed Star  _ to my sweet king, my dear Jaehaerys. I know what the Gods think of me." With a shuddering breath, she composes herself, meeting the knowing gaze of the septa sent from the Starry Sept as an act of pity and espionage all at once. 

"The Gods are kind ones, merciful in their justice." The septa frowns, deep lines forming around her mouth. How many times had grief weighed down upon her lips? How often did she find foolishness in an unenlightened soul? "And--"

"If the Gods are so merciful, or the God with Seven Faces, then why--"

_ Why did They allow for my poor daughter to be led to madness? Why did They let her fling herself into spikes that killed her much too quick and much too slow? Why did my little Jaehaerys have his head severed from his body? Why did my son lose to Daemon, yet win all the same? Why did-- _

Alicent screams, a cry ripping from the back of her throat, before standing up with a sudden jump. Both her maid and septa startles, confusion filling their expressions as the lady turns to her large oak chest. Throwing it open, Alicent tears out the beautiful gowns, her eyes wide and hysterical, filled with fresh tears. 

"I want it  _ gone _ !" She cries out madly, a touch of hysterics reaching her. 

"What, my lady, what?" Her maid shrieks, trying desperately to save the gowns her mistress tore into strips, all those beautiful shades of green going to waste. Alicent's fingers turned bloody as she tore each brooch, each stitch and diamond, each ribbon and petticoat into scattered pieces. It took both Alicent and the maid much too long to realize that she was only going after the green dresses, leaving the others unscathed.

"I want  _ it  _ gone. I've warred enough." Alicent replies hotly, one hand going to her forehead. "No, no, I cannot bear to see it-- burn the Green. I've had enough. Burn the green!"

And so, her terrified maid did as she bid. She took the ribbons, the strips of gown, the brooches and emeralds and everything else she could find in any shade of green, and tosses them into the flames of her lady's hearth. 

Alicent laughs and sobs as they burn, a hand across her mouth. 

_ Burn. Burn. Burn!  _

** ____ **

_ I did everything correctly. Everything proper. I was a virtuous young lady, clever and quick witted with a sweet voice and lady-like values. I was pretty, slender, and well-mannered. I married a man of higher rank, as was appropriate for a single daughter as a woman must always-- ALWAYS-- go further than she is born.  _

_ I did it all correctly. I smiled my lovely smile, sang my pretty songs, spoke knowledgeably and guided my husband as a trusted political advisor. I played my role of queen well, so well that I was, at one time, beloved by nobles and smallfolk alike. I kissed the face of a child and named her my daughter. I prayed at the altar of the Mother for the eternal life of a dead queen before me. I did it all correctly.  _

_ I had a son. And then another. And another after that, just to ensure our throne had an heir. I had boys, strapping and handsome and beautiful boys, each just as worthy and Targaryen as the next.  _

_ I married, I had boys, and I played my role.  _

_ So how… _

_ How did I lose?  _

_ How did I do everything right and still lose?  _

** ____ **

When Stranger comes, it does not come for just one. No, no, it steals whatever souls it can manage to snatch, digging its claws into the souls of the innocent and guilty. It sends  _ death  _ into the bones of the young and the old, the frail and the healthy. 

And it comes in many ways. Hundreds die of a new plague, a creeping winter fever that takes souls quick and with a fever. Outside the walls of Maegor's Holdfast, nearly a fifth of King's Landings people rot in a mass grave from this disease. And, like all diseases, it favors no man's worth nor title, and none are left aside. Lord Roland Westerling and Ser Tyland die quickly. 

They believe Lady Alicent does not know about this, just as they believe she does not know a great deal of other things. They believe she does not know her granddaughter, her last living piece of her late daughter and son, the only  _ good  _ thing left in her own miserable life, has died a miserable death. Her guards nor maid nor septa tell her of the child's fall from the Keep into the spikes down below, nor do they inform her of how the poor little thing choked, gurgled, ad moaned for nearly half an hour in agony before Death finally stopped his cruelty. For Death is  _ not  _ kind, even to a child.

She hears their whispers anyway, when they believe her asleep, and resigns herself to quiet grief. She pretends she doesn't know, and they do not officially tell her for good reason. For one morning the former Queen awoke with cheeks of rosy red, so bright it seemed she had spent all evening in the bitter winter air, and all those around her  _ knew _ . 

Lady Alicent had caught the Winter Fever. And they decide would send her off as peacefully as they could manage. 

** ____ **

No longer can she bear to sleep with the voices that make her head pound and ache so fiercely. Her eyes open slowly, blinking away the tiredness that never faded, the blur of vision that looked more of ripples in water than any clear image. Alicent cannot see what stands above her, cannot see  _ who  _ visits such a hated woman. 

_ Oh Saera, what have you done now?  _ Cold hands brush against her, strong strokes against her cheeks, and her forehead is smoothed out.  _ Oh, my sweet daughter, my child, whatever can I do with you? Should you spirit away once again to Lys? Break my heart once more? _

Alicent smiles, all her fears draining away as if she had broken a goblet of wine at the bottom, letting everything else fall away. For this man, she had once read to this man, this kind man. His name,  _ oh! how she once knew it! _ , did not readily come to mind, but she knew him as well as any child ought to know their father. 

"We broke each other's hearts," She murmurs gently. But she could not remember Lys, not at all, for had she ever been there? Surely not! Perhaps the man was mistaken. Or perhaps she was, but she did not know. Fingers brush against her skin light as the end of feathers on her flesh. His cold hands do not chill her, oh no, for how can a dragon ( _ fire made flesh, blackener of bones _ ) manage to bring about a chill in a woman such as herself? A woman lit by a flame at the top of a tower she built around herself? 

_ My poor, poor child _ , the voice whispers in her ears, louder and louder until her ears ring. The voice turns to a that of a woman, shouting at her,  _ shreeching. My poor, poor daughter! My poor sons, my poor children! Oh, my poor little children killed by treachery…! _

Alicent screams then too, clutching her ears. She cries out for the Seven, thrashing on the bed, swinging her arms around wildly. Somewhere, distantly, she hears the familiar tone of her Septa, the one whose name she could no longer recall, telling her to calm herself. 

"It's the fever, it's just the fever, hush now, my lady." Her Septa says as hands grab at her, as they encircle her wrists and keep her there, trapped on a bed of hay stuffed in sacks, so unlike the soft feather beds she once had as a girl. More hands grab at her, at her cheeks, her legs, her throat. Her screaming stops, as does her breathing. Eyes wide, she stares up at the blackness of the room, letting the cold sink into her bones. She couldn't move, could scarcely breathe…  _ Oh by the Gods! _ The septa's words had come and tone and now she was alone with the hands, the hands and the touching and the voice. That voice was, was-- she did not know. The woman whispers in her ear, her voice soft as a musician's beginning strums, Oh,  _ my poor little daughter. My poor sons. Murdered! Murdered! Treason! _

But who spoke to her? And what treachery had she committed? What had she privy to? Alicent searches her mind, her thoughts turned to blackened skin and splintering bones as fire took hold of them, bodies crackling like logs in the hearth, and it makes her feel as if she had been struck with a branding iron. Oh, who hadn't she hurt? Was it Helaena that spoke to her, bitter and vengeful over a son murdered in front of her (the memory of  _ that  _ gleaming blade, the thump of his head hitting the wooden floorboards, the  _ splatter  _ of crimson on her cheeks, makes Alicent sick to her stomach), about another son torn to pieces by the wickedly ambitious. Does her most beloved child, her ever so valued daughter, whisper to her of the poor little Jaehaera that flung herself to her death, a victim of her grandmother's great fear and convicted foolishness? 

Or perhaps it was Rhaenyra.  _ My daughter _ , Alicent had said over the taste of Arbor Red years and years ago, smiling with a little too much teeth. Perhaps to accommodate for the lack of smile in her eyes, perhaps because she thought a smile would give the girl the love Alicent feared she could not bestow. Rhaenyra, the bright eyed child that was motherless longer than the years that she had one, even counting the time Alicent  _ tried  _ to be a mother to her. Rhaenyra, the girl that Alicent had once loved, the only thing that she allowed herself to be weak enough to be tricked by.

Perhaps still she blamed her former good mother for the death of her daughter, of her Visenya. Perhaps still she clawed her way back into Alicent's thoughts, all flames and fury and blood and fire. All blackened flesh, unburied and unloved. Perhaps still she loathed Alicent for the death of her sons, trueborn and  _ strong _ , all killed by her good mother's desperate scramble for the Throne. 

Perhaps, but she does not know. The shrieks end. 

A hand against mouth, a hand against her cheeks, something  _ warm _ , so warm. It dripped down her throat,  _ burning burning _ , but so smoothly did it go down. It tasted of honey, of something sharp. 

"Shh, hush now, drink it all." She hears the words so softly spoke. Yet they ring in her ears all the same. "Sleep now, my queen."

_ Rest now,  _ Mother _ .  _

** ____ **

Alicent fades away, like melting ice by a flickering flame, slowly, slowly and suddenly gone. It doesn't seem a fitting end for such a woman as herself, but still it ends. 

Still she ends. 


End file.
